


A Cocaine Smile

by ronans



Series: Prompts [12]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Bad Dreams, Discussion of Bipolar, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, M/M, Rehabilitation, prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:38:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3236516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronans/pseuds/ronans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Prompt:</strong> AU where Ian and Mickey meet in rehab, and getting close and they become codependent on each other, and the doctors or whatever not approving but they actually help each other more - <a href="http://southsidemilkovich.tumblr.com/post/109209111844/hey-okay-so-an-au-where-ian-and-mickey-meet-in">Anon</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title: The White Line - Bonjah  
> I’m so sorry if there are inaccuracies about rehab in-patient care (there probably are, google can only do so much for my limited knowledge on how it works), so feel free to let me know and I’ll hopefully be able to get it sorted :) I also had to read up on the effects of drug abuse so, again, I apologise if there are inaccuracies.  
> 

‘Where did that come from?’ Jane snaps, snatching the lit cigarette out of Mickey’s mouth. He hadn't even noticed her walk back out of the building. Mickey groans and rubs his forehead with the tips of his tobacco scented fingers.

‘It’s just one fuckin’ smoke, a’right?’

Jane glares and him and folds her arms over her chest and it’s so fucking condescending he wants to cover his eyes to get away from the judgement.

‘I’m fucking _addicted.’_

‘No smoking,’ she says sternly. ‘We all know what else you were addicted to.’

Mickey clenches his jaw. The past tense she’s using is incorrect, really. He’s been craving a hit since the very same probation worker who’s in front of him found him completely out of it with a dirty needle hanging out of his arm and dragged him to the hospital yesterday morning. He doesn’t get how she’s so hasty to put the “addiction” in the past; it’s not like he’s even had any treatment yet.

The treatment centre before him stands dark and decrepit, a real shit hole, and Mickey’s sure the officer chose this place in particular thinking he’d fit right in. Then again, anywhere’s better than prison, so Mickey’s got to be at least a little grateful.

‘Hurry up and quit your mopin’. You’ve got to get to your initial evaluation,’ Jane murmurs before walking ahead of Mickey, her heels crunching along the gravel and strands of her brown hair flying behind her in the autumn wind.

‘Fuck,’ Mickey whispers, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and then keeping it there as he rakes his eyes over the building again. He’s got to check himself in, that was her condition. She wouldn’t go to the cops about his extra stash if he did it himself. ‘ _Fuck_.’

He does eventually pluck up the courage to put one foot in front of the other and then pushes his way roughly through the glass front doors. They're covered in grime and age and sickness that no amount of washing would get rid of. Yeah… Mickey’s going to fit right in.

He doesn’t really pay attention to the doctor, he doesn’t feel the need, he just gives mostly mechanic monosyllabic answers to everything and hopes they come out in the right order.

‘Mr Milkovich, you're severely underweight.’

‘I noticed,’ he sighs, because this is what it all keeps coming back to, no matter how yesterday he was nearly dead because his airways were choked up with vomit. He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing his P.O did her check up when she did or not.

‘Have you always been underweight or did it start when you began taking these substances?’

Mickey just shrugs. He can’t really remember; his weight wasn’t exactly his top priority growing up in the Milkovich house of horrors. As long as he wasn’t fat enough or scrawny enough to be the butt of that particular brand of his dad’s jokes and beatings, he considered himself fine.

Dr Ashford, as he’d introduced himself, all official and polite in the face of Mickey’s slightly hostile demeanour, exhales sharply, almost inaudibly, and jots down a couple of notes on his legal pad before looking back up at Mickey’s slouched figure across from him. ‘You’ll be given a room if you go out and ask Meredith at the front desk. I think your probation officer’s also waiting for you there.’

‘Feel like I’m in a fucking boarding school or some shit.’

Dr Ashford smiles like he doesn’t want to and nods. Mickey rolls his eyes and gets up out of the chair, taking his leave. He bites at his nails as he walks down the hall just to focus his brain on an action, just to maybe stop the storm that’s brewing there. Everything’s clinical and ordered in that depressing way that shows care but no _feeling_. Mickey fucking hates places like this. But it sure as shit beats rotting in a cell with a roommate who always has at least one shiv on him at all times.

‘How’d it go?’ Jane asks with one eyebrow elevated skeptically. Mickey’s fingers are twitching, desperate for another cigarette; he doesn’t want to have to learn to tolerate the sensation.

‘Fine, yeah, whatever. Look, I gotta go find a room so your job’s done,’ he rushes out, glancing around him, trying to spot where the woman who’d been behind the front desk has gone.

Jane purses her lips and cocks her head to the side. ‘Did you do all the paperwork?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you’re not going to give me any details abou-‘

‘Jesus fucking Christ, it’s not your fuckin’ problem.’ Mickey kind of just wants this day to be over with, but she’s making it drag on so much more than it needs to. She finally sighs and bends down to pick up a bag Mickey hadn’t cared to notice before. She holds it out for him to take which he does.

‘I collected some of your clothes from around your apartment. They’re clean… Well, mostly clean.’ She smirks and lets her gloved hand drop to her side. ‘I tried to select ones that weren’t covered in sweat and vomit.’

Mickey smiles tightly. ‘Great. Thanks.’ It sounds so fake and he doesn’t even try to hide it.

‘Take care, Mickey. I think this stay’ll do you good.’ And then she leaves and Mickey doubts he’ll see her for a while. Hopes, even. He doesn’t like the parts of his life she reminds him of.

He doesn’t quite know how long he’s been standing alone in the hallway clutching his ratty duffle bag, but the sound of a new woman’s voice snaps him out of the stillness.

‘Milkovich?’ Mickey spins around to face a light haired woman, dressed smartly and completely out of place with the scene around her. Sure, they tried to keep it clean but you can’t dress up the sadness in the walls. It’s a fucking depressing building through and through.

‘Yeah?’

She smiles thinly and walks over to him, heels clacking against the linoleum. Without warning, she takes his bag off him and starts off down another corridor, just expecting him to follow.

‘Dr Ashford said you would be looking for me. Don’t understand why you were left alone though because he _also_ said you were rather unenthusiastic about signing yourself up for in-patient care.’

Mickey scratches his bottom lip with his thumb and darts his eyes around as they push through some double doors at the end of the hallway.

‘Wasn’t my idea. And who the fuck’re you, anyway?’

She chortles and quickly glances over at him before focusing ahead again. ‘My name’s Meredith. I work here.’

‘Oh… Yeah, doctor said something…’ Mickey mumbles, not really concerned enough to engage properly with her.

‘We’ve got a spare room-‘

‘No fucking wonder, who the fuck chooses to come here?’

She breathes out in exasperation, clearly the startled humour at Mickey’s gruffness is already wearing off fast. ‘ _We have a spare room_ on this floor. You won’t have a roommate because we don’t believe sharing with another… person in your situation… helps with recovery.’

‘Well that’s one good thing so far,’ he mutters. He’d probably want to blow his brains out if he was shacked up with a junkie, talking his ear off night and day. And no, Mickey’s not applying that label to himself.

Suddenly, Meredith stops underneath a flickering strip light, the artificialness of it accentuating the peroxide in her hair. She pulls out a ring filled with keys from the pocket of her bell shaped skirt and jams one into the lock of the door next to them. The fact that the doors are locked when they’re not in use doesn’t quite sit right with Mickey.

Once she jimmies it open, she clicks her tongue and glares up at the light. ‘We’re getting someone in to sort that out…’ Mickey doubts it’ll be any time soon.

‘’Kay.’

She hands him back his bag and forces a smile. ‘I’ll leave you to get settled in. You’re a little too late for going to any groups but you’ll be expected to attend the main meeting tomorrow.’

Mickey just jerks his head in acknowledgement, more preoccupied with scouting out his room. It’s… marginally better than expected. Hey, at least he’s got a mattress that doesn’t have springs popping out; technically it’s an _upgrade_ from his own.

‘All good?’ Meredith asks, and her voice has gone from preppy to barely even sufficiently polite over the course of their whole interaction.

‘Yeah,’ he says, raising his eyebrows as he turns back to look at her, a not-so-subtle prompt for her to maybe leave him alone.

‘If you need anything there are guys stationed on each floor who’ll come to your assistance.’

‘Great.’

She makes an irritated noise in the back of her throat and leaves without saying anything else. A tad unprofessional in Mickey’s opinion but at least she’s gone and he’s blissfully alone. He’s just got to work out how the fuck he’s going to be able to sleep with his mind racing and the crawling sensation dancing over his skin.

*

_‘You shouldn’t be placing yourself in a toxic environment like that anymore, Ian. It’s part of your recovery that once we know you’re stable you can work in a new…’_

Ian’s eyes drift in and out of focus and his ears gave up trying to make sense of the doctor’s words ages ago. He breathes out through his nose and nods absently to appease the man behind the desk, lazily following his dark hands as they gesture along with his speech. He feels exhausted and just wants that feeling to go. He wants to feel happy again but they took his happiness away.

‘Ian.’

Everything blurs before it focuses again. The doctor’s aged, bespectacled face comes back into view and Ian’s eyes feel bone dry like he hasn’t slept in days. He brings his shaking hand up to his mouth and starts picking at the cracked skin on his lip.

‘Yeah?’

‘Did any of what I just said register?’ Dr Ashford sighs, clasping his hands together on top of Ian’s file.

Ian rolls his eyes and looks away to a filing cabinet behind the desk, pinching more forcefully at his lip. ‘Yeah, new job, stability, stuff like that, I got it.’

The doctor purses his lips and just stares at Ian for a few moments before letting out a puff of air. ‘I expect you to be at the group meeting later.’

‘I can leave?’ Ian asks, lifting an eyebrow.

‘Yes.’ Ian nods and stands up, striding over to the door. His hand’s on the handle when Dr Ashford stops him. ‘Ian?’

‘What?’

‘You're bleeding.’

Ian pulls his hand away from his mouth and inspects his fingertips. Sure enough, blood’s caked the spaces under his fingernails. He draws his bottom lip into his mouth and sucks on it, tasting iron, and then leaves without another word. He’s sure Dr Ashford will bring this shit up next time. As for now, he’s free to go back to his room and wait it out until the afternoon group meeting.

He can’t fucking believe he checked himself in here sometimes. He’s felt the exact same for the almost two weeks he’s been at the facility; tired, paranoid, hungry, uncomfortable in his own skin.

He throws himself on the creaky single bed and stares at the ceiling. There’s a damp patch in the corner that bugs him every time he looks at it. Ian starts to pick at the buttons on his plaid over shirt and wiggles his foot spasmodically. It’s all he can do in the hopes of keeping his mind busy. It never works.

Eventually, he always ends up pressing his head back into his pillow and shutting his eyes. He breathes in deeply through his nose and if he thinks about it hard enough, he can imagine sparks going off in his brain afterwards. It’s never enough. Then he’ll dream of the sparks becoming fire once sleep takes him, his brain fucking _lighting up_ and the euphoria coursing through his veins. He never feels like this anymore. He wants to blame someone for killing his happiness but he’s the only one accountable. And anyway, he’s not felt as good as he imagines in his dreams for a long time, because after awhile the good turns sour.

Thinking about it makes him wake up in a cold sweat. Every. Fucking. Time.

Time’s passed and the sun’s sunk a little lower in the sky from what he can see out of his window, but he feels the exact goddamn same.

‘Ian.’ It’s Thomas, he’s shaking him and his palms feel clammy where they're sliding against Ian’s skin.

‘ _What_?’ he croaks, blinking and running a hand through his sweaty hair. It feels disgusting and wet and it’s the _same_ , he’s not progressed whatsoever. He wishes he felt sad about it but there’s just the hopelessness that tells him his time is not linear, is never going to be, it’s stuck in a loop.

‘Ian, you’re gonna miss group if you don’t get up.’

Thomas’ face is all Ian can see and it’s like his brain’s amplifying the features and making them threatening.

‘Get the fuck off me,’ Ian wheezes, trying to roll away. Thomas immediately yanks his hands back. He works at the facility, he knows Ian, he knows the clones of Ian who react the same. That’s the thing, too – Ian’s not special. There are at least six other people in this centre alone who are being treated for the same shit he is. He knows one of them, even. Todd who worked at the same fucking club as Ian’s in for the exact same reasons. Except Todd’s got a boyfriend to go home to, Ian’s not even sure if he’s got his siblings. He scares them.

‘Calm down, man, your chest’s heaving.’ He’s brought back into the room and he realises that, yeah, Thomas is right. Not only is his chest rising and falling at ridiculous intervals, his heart’s thrumming like it’s about to burst. His dreams are fucking killing him when they bleed into his time awake.

Ian locks his eyes on a freckle on Thomas’ arm because it’s not moving and Ian can stop feeling like he’s at sea in his own brain.

‘You okay?’

‘Bad dream.’

Thomas presses his lips together and nods. ‘Well I just came to check in on you, make sure you were up for group. We’re talking about dependency in more detail today.’

Ian rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and inhales sharply through his nose. ‘Okay. Give me a sec.’

‘You alright to be on your own?’

It’s actually nice to hear Thomas sounding concerned for him, and for a second Ian imagines that he cares, that he’s not just doing his job. He nods weakly and closes his eyes, making his eyelids flicker as he scans the back of them.

‘I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at the meeting.’

‘Alright… Well, it starts in ten minutes and we’ve got a new guy.’

Ian just hums under his breath and listens for the sound of Thomas’ footsteps fading away. As soon as he’s gone, Ian props himself up on his elbows and then fully sits up, his body sagging with the force of his exhale. He figures he should probably change out of his soaked clothes before making his way downstairs to the main meeting area. It’s just another task he barely has any energy to carry out, but of course he manages it. He’s been _managing_ everything his entire life.


	2. Chapter 2

Mickey’s feeling brave. So why not ask the attractive redhead that’s just rocked up if he’s got any contraband? Well, it’s not like cigarettes are expressly  _banned_ as such, but Mickey’s all out because of his probation worker and he imagines that asking for more would be a bitch.

‘Yo, you smoke?’

The redhead whips around to face Mickey. There’s this wild look in his eyes like he’s constantly on guard so maybe he’s crazier than Mickey first judged. Oh well, he needs a cigarette before this piece of shit meeting starts to maybe soothe some of this itch under his skin.

‘I used to smoke…’ the guy answers somewhat wistfully, and the depth of his tone is pretty weird. Mickey draws his eyebrows together and stares at him for a moment before whistling in the face of the crazy and walking away to take his seat. There’s no time for a smoke anyway, now.

He doesn’t recognise the doctor who walks in with a clipboard, he thinks he maybe underestimated the centre’s budget because he just figured one lead doctor would be on the payroll.

‘Hi, everyone!’ she says and it’s way too fucking sunny to go with Mickey’s mood. There’s sweat escaping from every pore in his body and a dark cloud hanging over his head. He guesses he’s supposed to say “hi” back but, nope, that’s not fucking happening.

He keeps his eyes focused on the redhead who’s taken a seat directly across from him in the circle. There are about ten people between them, give or take, but he doesn’t give them any attention. The guy won’t stop moving in his seat, he seems to have more energy being released in ten seconds than Mickey’s had his entire life. Well, that’s what it feels like, anyway.

Mickey breathes out deeply in irritation because he can’t be fucked to be here, he can’t be fucked to talk, and he definitely can’t be fucked to open up the workings of his brain just so any possible motive he’s ever had to take drugs in the first place can be dissected.

‘I hope everyone’s feeling good today.’ Really fuck that. Who the hell is feeling good in a place like this at a _time_ like this? ‘We’re really getting in to _why_ we were so dependent on narcotics before we were admitted. Svetlana? I believe you were the last to share yesterday about how your experiences sparked your need for drugs such as…’ the woman leading the discussion starts to flick through her papers like she doesn’t fucking remember what happened yesterday. ‘Heroin.’ Mickey gulps.

‘Yes, s’why I don’t have to fucking start today,’ a woman two spaces to Mickey’s right retorts in a thick Russian accent. Mickey chuckles under his breath at her deadpan expression and her folded arms. Some of the tension seems to leave his body with the laughter which he’s grateful for.

Dr Wren, the name Mickey’s finally managed to pick up from the badge on her blazer, presses her lips together and stares at Svetlana for a few moments before leaning back in her chair. ‘Okay! Well then… Mr Milkovich?’

Mickey’s head snaps up and he’s kind of uncomfortable with being addressed by his surname in front of all these people. Narcotics Anonymous his ass. Why did things have to be different here?

‘Yeah?’ he replies, putting as much exasperation into his tone as possible to show she’s being a real inconvenience for him. Svetlana seems to appreciate his attitude because he can see her smirking from the corner of his eye.

She smiles at him in a kind of patronising way before talking again. ‘Everybody, this is Mickey, he just joined us yesterday.’

A phantom “ _hi, Mickey_ ” echoes around his brain just because he expects it, but in reality, everyone sat in the circle looks too damned depressed to even acknowledge him. He doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or relieved.

‘Yup,’ he mutters because he feels awkward as fuck, and what else is he supposed to say?

Another smile, another shuffle of papers, and then she’s looking back up at him. ‘We’ve been discussing the roots of dependencies for the last few sessions… Would you like to share anything?’

Mickey’s eyebrows raise and he slouches even further in his chair. ‘Uh, no?’ Svetlana coughs over a laugh.

Dr Wren glares at Svetlana in warning and then focuses back on Mickey. ‘Since it’s your first meeting, I think it would be good for you to unload some… initial anxieties, perhaps, that you have about recovery, about no longer depending on a drug.’

Mickey huffs and sits up, hating the feel of metal against his back. ‘Look, I’m not… I don’t feel ready, okay? Fuck, yeah, that’s all I’m saying.’

Dr Wren doesn’t look surprised and just nods slowly and, again, it’s patronising as hell. ‘Okay. This is understandable, but you need to prepare yourself to share, to unload the burden of your experiences.’

Mickey rolls his eyes to the ceiling because _fuck_ , this is kind of working on him. Not completely, though. He just wants to say anything to stop her from looking down on him. ‘It’s nothin’ fucking special; I just… I like to get high.’ He’s pretty good at lying.

Nodding, nodding, nodding, coming at him from all angles because everyone appears to just want to get this thing over with. Or maybe they just plain _agree_ with Mickey.

‘I feel like the addiction goes a lot deeper than this, Mickey.’

‘ _I_ feel like you’ve only known me two seconds,’ Mickey counters, because there’s no way she can just make such a bold judgement that fast. Even though Mickey _had_ been lying through his teeth. He never wanted to start this in the first place, it wasn’t his choice. And the doctor sat basically opposite him knows shit about anything that happened to him before he signed himself up for this yesterday.

His reply seems to ruffle her and she moves on to a woman called called Kendall who’s clearly one of their hard cases. Meth can seriously fuck you up.

It’s annoying that he can relate to the words she’s forcing out, how she speaks about the sadness going away for even a second seems worth it until the crash, until the consequences. He tunes out after a while because he can’t take hearing it from this stranger’s mouth.

Not too long after Kendall’s finished speaking, Dr Wren decides it’s just about time to wrap this thing up. Of course, she starts asking another poor asshole sitting in the circle to tell his fucking story before cutting him off just so she’s got somewhere to start tomorrow.

‘We’ve made some real progress today, and I think it’ll be good to just take a break and sleep on our thoughts so we can maybe contribute tomorrow more in depth.’ She’s looking directly at Mickey as she says that last bit which fucks him off because he wasn’t the only one not to really speak much. Take the ginger ex-smoker; he hadn’t said a damned word.

He’s not going to let thinking about it take up too much of his time, however, so he’s quick to shove his chair to the side of the room just like everyone else and get the hell out of there. His sweat seems to be sweating and he can’t fucking wait to be on his own so he can deal with it, like he always does.

‘Oh, Mr Milkovich!’ Dr Wren calls after him before he can even put one fucking foot over the threshold. He sighs and turns back around to see the larger framed woman hurrying towards him, clutching her clipboard to her chest. She seems so much more frazzled and less official now the meeting’s over.

‘Yeah? What?’

She smiles up at him because, surprisingly, she’s shorter than him. ‘I was told to send you down to Dr Ashford’s office after the meeting. He said you may have some things to discuss with him.’

Mickey clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. ‘’Course he’d think that.’ Mickey’s making himself appear annoyed but, really, this is a perfect opportunity to bring up the lack of nicotine currently in his system. ‘Alright. I’m goin’.’

He doesn’t wait for her reply before marching on down the corridor until he reaches the familiar door to the doctor’s office; it’s one of the only places he’s been in other than his room, the meeting area, and the dining hall. Not that he’d eaten much, but at least he’d gotten out of bed.

He bursts in without preamble and just starts checking off possible things that have pissed him off thus far.

‘I don’t fuckin’ like the fact that you can just call me in here like you’re a damn principal and I’m a kid, I don’t like having to fuckin’ share my problems with all these coked out fucks, and nah, I can’t go cold fuckin’ turkey with the smokes as well as… that’s just gonna fuck me up worse.’

Dr Ashford stares at him until he finishes his rant and then gestures for Mickey to take a seat. Mickey does so with a puff of air out of his mouth and starts scratching absently at his FUCK U-UP knuckle tattoos.

‘I understand your concerns towards smoking; I agree it’s going to do no good for your body if you just completely cut them out.’

Mickey’s gotta say he’s a little surprised at this calm reaction he’s getting from the doctor, but the surprise is outweighed by the sheer _relief_ he’s feeling that he can get this one thing back, he can have a little normality again. Plus, being able to smoke will do a fuck load of good towards dealing with this stress.

‘Okay… So you’ll give me them?’

‘We will be able to provide you with cigarettes, yes, so long as you're prepared to pay for them and agree to cut down on the amount you’re smoking. Not only is it bad for your health, but it’s just going to fuel the addictive aspects of your personality.’

Mickey glares at Dr Ashford like he’s a complete moron. ‘I’ve smoked since I was, like, eight, man. That came way before the other shit.’

‘But you appear to have a personality that causes you to latch on to addictive substances, and that-‘

‘I didn’t come here for some sort of fuckin’ psych evaluation. You gonna give me the smokes or not?’

Dr Ashford sighs and scribbles down a note on his legal pad quickly. ‘I’ll get it sorted for you, Mr Milkovich. Now do you want to talk more about the other issues you brought up when you came in?’

Mickey chuckles and stands up, wiping his clammy hands on his jeans. ‘Fuck that. Later.’

‘Mr Milk-‘

He’s not letting this whole _stop Mickey before he can leave so you can talk to him more_ become a thing amongst the doctors so he gets the fuck out of there.

He guesses Svetlana only comes here for the meetings rather than the full in-patient ride because as he leaves Dr Ashford’s office and makes his way out to the main entrance hallway, he sees her talking to a girl Mickey vaguely recognises, before kissing her and then hitching her bright yellow bag up more securely onto her shoulder, pushing her way out the front door. Mickey kind of admires the _don’t give a fuck_ air she gives off as she leaves.

*

That smile. His smile. But it’s not him. It’s wide and there’s white powder spilling from his nose, mingling with the blood, he’s swallowing it as it drips into his mouth. Blood. Painting his face like some sick lipstick. He’s looking in a cracked bathroom mirror and he feels _vile_ , his face is warped.

 _Cocaine clown_.

‘Jesus Christ, you’re fucking demented.’

Ian gasps and sits upright in his bed. It’s barely a split second before he’s scrambling around on his covers, plastering himself against the wall and flicking his eyes around the room for the source of the noise. He prays to fucking god it wasn’t in his head because if it was he’s just got one more fucked up consequence to deal with.

‘Cocaine clown? Ian the fucking cocaine clown? You talk complete shit in your sleep, man…’

The guy from yesterday’s group – Mickey – is just standing there in Ian’s doorway, looking at him.

Ian runs a hand over his face, scrunching it up at the usual sweat that coats it. He can’t stop breathing heavily enough to go into details, but he figures a one word explanation will do it. ‘Withdrawals.’

‘No shit it’s fucking withdrawals. What the hell were you on?’

‘That’s personal.’ There’s a deepness to his voice that only crops up after fitful sleep and he coughs to get rid of it.

‘’Spose.’

Ian squeezes his eyes shut. ‘I just woke up… from a bad dream. So if you wouldn’t mind-‘

‘Yeah, yeah, Howdy Doody, I gotcha,’ Mickey grumbles before shrugging off the doorway and sauntering off down the hall.

It takes another few gulps of air before Ian’s feeling a little more like himself. The room around him’s still bathed in darkness and his clock read 5:34AM. He’s not sure if he woke Mickey, or if the man had just been roaming around trying to deal with not being able to sleep, but he figures if he’s going to try to find out, he may as well do so after a couple more hours of sleep.

It’s never easy to become unconscious again after a dream that intense, but Ian’s persistent and ends up getting in at least another hour. He can press his fingers against the tender skin under his eyes and knows there’re still bruises there, though. He manages to slip out of bed and dress himself, checking the time and then making his way to the dining area to grab some breakfast. Ian’s stomach constantly growls, like it’s trying to consume enough food to fill the hole of his other cravings.

Mickey is noticeably absent from breakfast and it’s supposed to be his second one at the facility; Ian hadn’t even known you could skip it, hadn’t even tried. He doesn’t know why this makes him feel uneasy, but it does. And he has no fucking idea why he decides to go and look for the guy, because it’s not as if he’d been particularly nice to Ian or anything like that, he’d actually been pretty rude.

Ian doesn’t fucking know what’s wrong with his head, and he really has no control over his legs as he somehow gets up after he’s finished his meal and they carry him out of the door and back to the bedrooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of Ian's POV, it's just that the end of the chapter leads on to the beginning of the next from Mickey's POV and this was... just how it turned out

**Author's Note:**

> [If you'd like to send me a prompt, I'm on Tumblr :)](http://southsidemilkovich.tumblr.com)


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